


Isolation

by OwlQuill



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: (threats of) torture, Alternate Universe - Dark, Captive, Gen, Threats of Cannibalism, spider attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlQuill/pseuds/OwlQuill
Summary: What if the Bog King is not impressed by a Fairy Princess who has learned to fence?





	

The Bog King notices the fluttering shadow just in time. A fairy shatters the skylight, sword raised, screaming with fury, and he blocks with his staff. Just in time. He is not surprised like this often.

“Release my sister!” she snarls, still bearing down against his block.

“Oh, really.” He rolls his eyes and breaks the bind, dodges or blocks her quick succession of attacks. The song she starts is more powerful than he expected from a fairy, but not actually painful like her sister’s was. Easily ignored. Retreating, he gauges her skill.

The crown princess is quick and determined, but she lacks guile. It’s obvious where she aims, she doesn’t seem to know what a feint is. _Straight On_ indeed, she didn’t have to sing that at him.

“Need any help?” Thang asks, inane as usual.

“Raise the alarm! This pretty little butterfly is not getting away.”

With a feral grin he concentrates on the fairy. She aims herself at him like a thrown spear, his wings take him up, a twirl of his staff lands a blow between the roots of her wings, disrupting their rhythm.

She goes down hard, picks herself up sluggishly, just to her feet because her wings still don’t obey her.

The Bog King times a swing to her middle perfectly to just before she would have regained her bearings. She’s thrown backwards, air knocked from her lungs.

He’s mildly impressed she has held on to her sword through that, but as she is gasping and retching, it’s easy to knock it away. He puts the head of his staff to rest on the back of her neck, bringing some sharp edges close to her pulse point - not too close, because she’s still not entirely in control of her body, and he doesn’t want to kill her _accidentally_.

“I don’t think you will be getting your sister.” He takes some amusement from her trying to glare at him from the corner of her eye, and snarl with those tiny, blunt teeth. Her eyes flick down to his feet and her own legs shift; the Bog King increase the pressure to her neck before she tries to sweep his legs out from under him, or something of the kind. “And I don’t think there will be more fighting, either.”

***

Marianne breathes hard, still queasy, her blood rushing in her ears with a mix of fury and fear. She has to wait for a chance, a distraction, maybe when the reinforcements he ordered come… but they arrive, and the Bog King gives orders without taking his eyes from her.

As a pair of hobs grab her arms, pulling her up to a kneeling position and holding her there, she finds her voice. “You bloody coward! You—”

“Aw, you’re just being a sore loser.” From high and almost petulant mockery, his voice drops to a roar that shakes the ceiling. “And you will show me respect!”

With a scream of rage she almost pulls her arm free, gets one foot under her, until a third hob joins the others, pushing her down, simply standing on her shanks. Huge hands on her shoulders keep her down, her wings trapped in the press of bodies. They are not repeating their mistake from the elf dance.

“You can’t—”

But the Bog King turns away and just gives his orders over her protests. “Leastwise! Get her wrapped up, and locked up! Behind a door. The rest of you, get those shards cleaned away! We’re awaiting more visitors.”

There are at least half a dozen more goblins around. One of them approaches, a smallish one, carrying something round. Marianne freezes when the red-brown lump extends legs, and she recognises it for the spider it is. She can’t let it near her, she has seen what that species’ venom does to a fairy, she can’t, she’s screaming and fighting again. 

But there are too many goblins, they’re too strong; there’s a pull on her wings and crushing weight on her legs, her arms twisted and dull claws digging into nerves in her shoulders, a smothering embrace squeezing the air from her lungs, claws in her hair pulling her head back, a hand under her chin pushing her jaw up, trying to move only means blazing pain. Tears blur her vision, making it impossible to tell which of the light touches on her face are goblin fingers and which are spider legs, but she can’t fight back. _If it gets my face or neck, maybe it’ll be quick._

Marianne trembles, frozen in panic and memories of her mother. A spider bite on her hand. The flesh around the wound softening and oozing. The rot spreading for hours and days, killing her slowly.

By the time Marianne can take in what’s really going on, the spider, with help from the goblins, has wrapped bands of silk around her jaw, gagging her, and around her upper body, pressing her arms and wings to her back. The spider handler makes sure the silk is not clogging her nostrils while two hobs hold her, one wrapping their giant paws around her ankles, so the spider can continue its work. Marianne stops herself from kicking. It doesn’t have bitten her so far, but she can’t risk provoking it.

A massive goblin towering even over the hobs throws her over their shoulder, and she concentrates on breathing and not throwing up. It’s a particular challenge when she’s carried down a long set of stairs. Death by choking on her own vomit, she can’t think of a more embarrassing way to die.

The spider-handler follows with their charge, and once they are at the end of the stairs, Marianne cranes her neck to watch them. They give no indication of their plans.

She is dropped less than an arm’s length from something vertically ridged. A gilled mushroom? Rough against her cheek, the ground is the same half-rotted wood as the rest of the castle. Maybe if she is left alone she can wiggle around and find a ragged edge to work the silk on until it rips.

But the spider gets to work again, spinning a dozen bands festooning her to the floor. Out of options, Marianne makes a last effort to move. It does no good. At least the goblins don’t mock her like their king did.

Steps, one set heavy, one set light, leave. There is a rattle she can’t place, and a dull thump that takes away the light and changes the sound. Locked up. Behind a door. Testing her bonds more slowly and carefully, she finds that she can only move her head. A little. She can’t even turn far enough to see if there is light under the door. And her limbs are going numb.

She’ll have to await the mercy of the goblin king, alone with the strange noises of his fortress.

***

The second time Marianne thinks steps sound in the room on the other side of the door, they include the thumb of metal on wood. The door opens, letting light that under other circumstances would be faint stings her eyes, reflected off the white mushroom gills in front of her.

Her guess that it might be the king’s copper staff is confirmed by his dry voice. “Thorough work.”

He stalks around her, hooking the lines gluing her to the ground with the head of his sceptre, before sitting down on the mushroom. His deformed feet rest close to Marianne’s waist.

Lifting and turning her head as far as she can, she sees him picking silk strands off his sceptre and weapon, smiling to himself. When he is finished, he turns to watching her. Muscles in her shoulders and back are protesting, starting to tremble. With a growl only she can hear, she gives up on the idea of staring him down in this position, and lowers her head to the ground again. It’s that, or holding out until it falls without her permission.

“Stand her up.”

At the order, two hobs pick her up by the shoulders, high enough that her face is about level with the Bog King’s chest. Her feet must be touching the ground, though she isn’t sure about her knees. She can’t feel her limbs properly any more, and she’s trying to glare at the goblin king, so she refuses to drop her eyes and check. She holds on to her anger with all her might. She has never been so humiliated in her whole life. Anger will drown out fear. He leans his staff on the edge of the mushroom. His movements are slow and relaxed. The Bog King seems to think he has all the time in the world to humiliate her further.

Eventually, he leans forward. Marianne can’t suppress a tiny twitch when his claw touches her cheek close to her eye. He slips his claw under the gag and half slices, half rips it away.

“I think I interrupted you. My apologies, but I had to take care of pre-arranged business. What was it you were saying?”

“You can’t keep my sister and me prisoners. If nothing else will work, my father’s armies will march on the Dark Forest. Do you want all-out war?”

“We would mind less than your people would, I’m sure. But let me fill you in on recent events.”

Gesticulating like a fairy courtier, which looks incongrous with his earthy and martial colour and built, he explains, “Your sister is on her way home. An obnoxiously green, obnoxiously shiny, and just generally obnoxious knight brought back my potion, and as per my terms. So I gave him the younger princess.”

Marianne breathes a little easier hearing that, even if it did sound like it was Roland who fetched Dawn.

“When he asked about you, I told him I hadn’t seen you since crossing the border, or heard reports of a fairy of your description being sighted in the Dark Forest. But of course I offered to send out patrols to search you and inform you that your sister is free, with orders to ignore the usual procedure for fairy sightings and let you go without further fuss.”

He waits while Marianne grinds her teeth. “You lied!”

“You insulted me.” His voice drops into a low growl, the anger it in making Marianne’s gut clench in instinctual fear. “You raised your hand against me. You attacked my keep. Did you really think I would just let you get away with that.” 

“But my father knows—”

“I’m no fool. Even if Dagda would send his heir into the Dark Forest, he would never let her go without a whole troop.” His sneer transformed to a gleeful grin. “But you arrived here all alone.”

“He knows—” Curse it, her voice was shaking.

“He knows that you went into the Dark Forest.” his voice is soft and gentle, as if explaining something to a child. Or luring a child into a trap. “But the Dark Forest is a dangerous place. Flytraps and thorns, owls and bats… No-one not obedient to me knows you are… here.” He draws out the last word, with an expansive gesture indicating the cell, and by extension his castle.

A shudder runs down her spine. 

“Now picture this: We cut off your wings, carefully, so you don’t bleed out. We rip up the edges, making sure one cannot tell they have been cut. Then we send them to your father, with our condolences. We tell him they were found under a bird’s nest. The Princess Marianne must have been attacked and fed to the bird’s young. A tragedy. But the forest truly is no place for fairies.

“Your people will remember you as nothing but a little girl who thought that knowing a few moves with a sword made her a dashing hero. You foolishly ran off into danger, and got yourself killed.”

Marianne could not meet his eyes any more. It felt like being stabbed with icicles. Her control slipped, the pressure of tears stinging her eyes. “Then get on with it and kill me.”

“Oh, no. What could we do if we have you, and your people think you dead already?” His voice slides into a lower register, returning to its more usual burr. “What I really want is nail your remains to ten different trees along the border, as warning to your people. If I were out for war, I would. As it is, I’ll settle for private satisfaction. I think you agree that it is worth something, or you would have left rescuing your sister to your father’s army.”

It is all Marianne can do to try and control her tremors.

“You might be useful. A source of entertainment — I know a few hunters who I’m sure would appreciate a target that wiggles and screams for their javelin throwing practice, for example. Or a source of information. I’m curious. Do all fairies have that reaction to spiders, or is that unique to you?”

“No. No. I won’t tell you anything.” Nothing he could use to fight her people. And if she doesn’t start, she can’t slip into it.

“Hmm. Then we have to settle for something else.” In a too long pause, the Bog King tapping his chin, Marianne concentrates on breathing. She has to hold it together. “Do you know, in the archives we have some writings dating from before the isolation, when our realms were still at war. There are even recipes for fairy meat. If we combine it with letting a healer practise amputations on you, you might even taste the results, too.”

That gets her to look up with wide-eyed horror. He can’t be… he can’t…

The Bog King gives a short chuckle. “Or you might be most useful to me alive and back home.”

“What.” He does not answer. Marianne shakes her head wildly. “Quit your games. Kill me, or, or torture me, but get on with it.”

“Oh, yes. Straight on is how you like it, wasn’t it?” The worst of the mockery bleeds out of his voice. “I’m willing to let you go, under the condition that you swear an oath. To keep this secret — as far as anyone is concerned, you got tangled up in a spider web in the woods, and rescued by goblins.” He bends close to her, tapping her chest with a black claw. His voice goes a little deeper, a little slower. “And you swear to never oppose me again.”

Marianne bites her lip. There’s a way out and she wants to rush in, but she is the crown princess. She has been raised to rule, and consider the consequences of her promises for the realm carefully. “We need to negotiate a more precise meaning of ‘oppose’.”

“You think you are in a position to negotiate?”

She’s still trembling, but meets his eyes. “I’ll die before I swear an oath that forces me to stand aside while you conquer the Fields.”

“Hah! Fair enough.” Marianne is taken aback at this quick concession, but if it shows on her face, the goblin king ignores it. “Go on, make me a suggestion.”

A surprised huff escapes her, and she tries to shift. She has been taught negotiations, but the instructions on body language did not include the case of being wrapped in spider silk. While she considers content and wording, her eyes unfocus. “I would swear that when I am Queen, I will honour the primrose border. I would not order any troops, spies, saboteurs, or thieves into your territory, nor anybody else with an intention to break your laws, or harm your subjects or cause damage to your realm.”

“Why not just ‘order no-one’?”

“We’d need at least a provision to allow messengers. If this oath is to remain secret, we will have to make a show of negotiating a treaty to the same effect.”

“All right, it’s a start. If any of your subjects crosses the border, they are mine to punish as I see fit. And if they manage to flee, you will bring them back to me.”

“I… I…” Marianne takes as deep a breath as she can, and bows her head. “I would agree to hand over anyone who crosses the border with indication of meaning mischief, including going armed or being in possession of a primrose petal. But I kindly request clemency for those who meant no harm — young fools not watching their step, or someone fleeing a predator, say.”

“I will consider it. Since you’re asking so nicely.” As Marianne doesn’t reply, he continues. “Indirectly acting against me needs to be covered.”

“I would not support any plan meant to bring harm to you, your realm, or your subjects.”

“I would prefer you oppose it.”

Oh, sure you would. “I would oppose such plans if I think I can do so without making people unduly suspicious why I side so strongly with you.”

“You are not as stupid as I thought first.”

Marianne lets out a hissing sigh, but does not rise to the bait beyond that. She has to pick her battles, and defending her people is more important than defending herself.

“We should sleep on this, and handle the final formalities tomorrow.”

She swallows and looks up. The thought of spending the night restrained like this— Whatever protest sat on the tip of her tongue slink back into her throat when she finds herself nose to nose with the Bog King. “If you promise me now to not fight or flee, but stay with us until I allow you to leave, which I will after this business is settled, you may spend the night merely locked up instead of wrapped up.”

Marianne forces herself to roll the conditions through her mind before agreeing. “I promise not to fight or flee until you let me go, provided that happens tomorrow and no-one tries to maim or kill me.”

“Hah! Good enough. Cut her free enough she can make it all the way. Don’t injure her.”

The tok, tok of his staff on the floor recedes while the hobs carry out his order. When they let down Marianne on the floor again, her upper body is halfway free, the silk cut or ripped along the middle of her back. The goblins leave and close the door, but Marianne is not left in the dark again. They left a single, small glowstone that leaves most of the cell in shadows, but at least lets her see. She rolls her shoulders and tries to spread her wings; her arms are going from numb to tingling, then burning as if covered in acid. The silk is still tacky and clings to her. On a second attempt to loosen it, it almost seems like her efforts have entangled her tighter again, and she forces herself to relax, waiting until she has use of her arms and hands. The pain distracts her from thinking about her situation, which is a blessing, and from considering the Bog King’s demands, which is dangerous.

One thing at a time.

It’s hard work freeing herself without anything that can cut. Marianne grinds her teeth to stop herself from cursing or crying, from pain or from shame about having lost, and lost so thoroughly. Apparently her idea that the stories about goblins that are used to scare goblins were wildly exaggerated, if not complete fabrications, was entirely wrong.

With small pauses to catch her breath and transfer strands of silk sticking to her fingers to the gills of the mushroom, she works herself free. When the pins-and-needles burn fades, it leaves behind duller aches of bruises and scrapes. Her wings don’t stop aching, some veins having been kinked and damaged. She wraps them around herself, carefully, both for the slight calming effect and to try for a better look. What she can see will heal, and there’s no sharper pain of more serious injuries nearer to their roots. A Shudder runs through Marianne when she remembers the Bog King’s threat to cut off her wings. The fact that it was entirely plausible people would believe the lie she had fallen afoul of an animal made it worse. 

Certain she would not be able to sleep, Marianne forced her mind on the topic of the Bog King’s demands, and which traps might be woven into her oath, which lines she would have to draw. The question if she could stand fast if he insisted… would be answered if it came to that.

***

When the Bog King returns, it jerks Marianne out of a light doze. She gets one leg under her, but stops herself from trying to jump up, not wanting to fall over and add to her indignity. Bruised, grimey, dusty, eyes itching and throat parched and raw, she glares up at him. She’s not sure what signs to look for in his sharp, lined face, but nothing obvious indicates he is tired.

Three hobs accompany him, the last pulling down the thorn-studded bars. The first carries a tray that looks ridiculously tiny in his hands, and sets it down in the middle of the mushroom. A pitcher and two goblets, all made of copper.

All three hobs stand back near the entrance. The Bog King sits casually on the mushroom and with a gesture indicates Marianne to join him. While he pours, Marianne sits. For a dizzying moment she is reminded of relaxed chats with her sister, sharing a big bloom or leaf as a seat, and she wonders if she is more than half asleep.

The drink is water, tasting of copper and nothing else, sliding down her throat like snowmelt.

The Bog King watches her intently, with a small smirk. She clears her throat. “So. Negotiations? Or did you poison me and are waiting for me to show symptoms for your amusement?” Her arms and hands tingle a little, feeling warm, but she is almost entirely certain that is just nerves. Fear.

“Negotiations.”

And he is true to his word. Marianne relaxes a little as they quibble over wording details. She has been trained in these things — unlike swordfighting, with her father’s approval — and she is as determined to not give more than necessary as she was yesterday to get her sister back.

She finds no obvious traps, and when she suggests changes, the Bog King does not offer more than token resistance.

Marianne expects that to change when they winds down, and the goblin’s eyes unfocus in concentration.

What he finally says is, “All right. Let’s go ahead with this.”

Marianne stares dumbly, until the Bog King extends his hands, palms down. She falls into the small ritual shared in both kingdoms, putting her hands below his, palms up. She had expected something grander. The throne room filled with a crows of witnesses for the oath, to show off his victory. Though if he wants to keep it secret, keeping the knowledge among a small number of goblins is sensible, even with the borders closed.

After two deep, calming breaths, she recites the vow they have agreed on. Their hands touch lightly, his skin dry and rough, the tips of his claws a slight tickle on the inside of her right forearm.

“Good.” He gets up. “I’ll show you to the door.” One of the hobs opens the cell for his king and their prisoner to leave.

Stunned, Marianne follows. After last night, she had expected… more. Worse.

But the Bog King does lead her, on foot, up the stairs, past suspended cages for one prisoner apiece, all empty. Through dark, cavernous corridors, to the exit of his castle, that ridiculous, over-dramatic skull bridge.

In the gap between the trees, the sky looks pale, blue dulled by a thin veil of clouds. When Marianne pauses at the edge of the bridge to let her eyes adjust to the light, the Bog King points. “You can’t miss the border if you head West.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. Here.” Another goblin hands him something, and he holds it out for Marianne brusquely, his face twisted in distaste. It’s her sword.

She takes it and slowly places it back in the loop sewn to her tunic. “Why?”

“It goes better with your cover story.”

“All right then.” There’s a snarl underlying her words. She isn’t looking forward to lying to everyone she knows.

“And I’d like to give you one more thing.” He holds out his hands, palms up.

“What?” The goblin’s face is more neutral than she has seen it before, almost seeming relaxed.

“I swear that I honestly believe my promise will make you feel less bad about yours.”

It is hard to believe, but he has given her an oath, if a casual one. Marianne extends her hands.

“I swear to you this: I will uphold the primrose border. Any of my subjects found further West than necessary to destroy the primrose blossoms will be yours to punish as you see fit — unless I catch them first, in which case I will punish them, to deter others from disrespecting my law. I swear I will not send anybody into your lands except, possibly, for messengers, should the need for communication arise. I will be bound to this oath for as long as you keep the one you gave me.”

Marianne stares wide-eyed while the tension in her back eases. It is almost a fair exchange, but why? Why is he doing this now, when he does not have to? He could have suggested it in the first place. Her voice comes out soft. “Thank you.”

The Bog King drops his hands and sneers. “It is a very small thing to give. You and your barren waste of a land have nothing to offer that interests us, _fairy_.” The word is twisted with disgust.

While Marianne is left speechless by this sudden blow, he turns and takes off, his buzzing wings carrying him into the shadowy gullet of his castle. 

Her left clutching the hilt of her sword, spine straight, Marianne walks away. She does not trust her wings to carry her smoothly, after they spent hours crumpled and pinched, and with spider silk still clinging to them behind her shoulders, where she could not reach.

She will return home. With another secret. With another dream to bury. Even if after making the Bog King’s acquaintance she found it in her to still seek open borders between their realms, she is sworn to keep them strictly separated.

Well. Isolation is an awkward kind of peace, but better than war.

So be it. 


End file.
